Snippets of Pantheon Life
by Thalaba
Summary: These are a series of short stories surrounding the lives of various immortals in mythology. Ratings will be T to M for blood, sexual situations, darkfics, violence, angst, etc. Over 16,000 hits!
1. Demeter

Her long corn-silk curls were matted with sweat and red clay. It streaked across her once shining face in muddy smears; it coated her torn smock and caked the sore, battered flesh of her hands. Tears poured from tired, bleary eyes in a continuous flood, dropping uselessly to a barren landscape ripe with dusty footprints and the low wailing of a deserted mother.

_If she had been more attentive; if she had observed her daughter's playmates more closely; if she had kept Persephone by her side_: in her moments of guilt-ridden clarity Demeter would revisit these possibilities in a vain attempt to turn back time and save her beautiful daughter from an unknown fate. It was the ignorance which pierced like a sickle, the not knowing, the lack of knowledge of her dear daughter's very soul. How could the most innocent being, the prettiest of the Pantheon, disappear without leaving anything of herself behind? A few flower petals that crumbled in Demeter's terrified grasp: nothing, worthless!

She avoided the company of other Gods, her senses bent on discovering the whereabouts of her lost child, foregoing her duties, blessing the Earth only when she stopped to rest on her never-ending pilgrimage.

Finally she lay her weary bones against a sun-bleached boulder, breathing hard in the shade it offered but not caring for her own fatigue; only Persephone mattered, only the search.

"You look tired."

Demeter squinted her watery eyes at the vision before her. Gleaming white robes billowed around supple limbs; three faces—six dark eyes—stared down at her before shimmering into one. A sparkling torch was held high even in the heat of Helios' chariot moving high in the heavens.

"Hecate?" the grain Goddess croaked. "Do you…do you mock me?"

"No." The guardian of crossroads, of the paths between life and death shook her white head, locks tumbling around strong shoulders and high breasts. A cruel smirk played upon the edges of her blood red mouth as the silence purposely grew between them, as she watched the once mighty Goddess now brought so low. "I've watched your suffering Demeter, but now you must learn the truth."

"What are you babbling about, hag?" Demeter scoffed, running her injured hand along the shade-damp soil unmindful of the potential enemy she was antagonizing with her insults.

"Babbling am I?" Hecate pursed her lips, the torch wavering at the slight. "Am I to assume you no longer care about where to find your missing child?"

Demeter's attention was quickly focused, her breath coming in rapid pants, her mud smeared cheekbones rising and falling.

"What? You—you know where Persephone has gone? You—Have you known? Have you known all along?!"

"Mostly," she dismissed the mother's outrage. "But remember, I am the first to let you know."

"Let me know what?"

"Your child is no longer on the Earth, Demeter. Persephone is in the arms of her uncle." Another silence fell as Demeter stared, agape, jaw trembling. She painfully pushed herself up, anger replacing the weeks of melancholy and utter despair.

"Who?!" she demanded, eyes flashing. "Tell me now witch! Poseidon? Does he dare to hurt me through Persephone?!"

"It's not your brother of the waves Demeter. It's the Dark One, the Rich One: your brother of the Underworld."

"You lie!" the words left Demeter's cracked lips in a hiss, like a summer breeze through dried wheat. "He is incapable of lust. Nothing would stir him to distraction Hecate, he is stone."

A deep, purring laughter rumbled from the other immortals' throat. With one hand on her shapely waist she turned her back on Demeter, walking away from the crossroads and fading once again into nothingness.

"I'm too elegant to lie."


	2. Aphrodite

She arched under his pounding, grinding strength, relishing her own indomitable manipulation as his calloused warrior's hand caressed and kneaded the fullness of her bosom. Tanned cheeks rubbed stubble-features over her alabaster flesh, leaving red streaks along with the nicely sore half-bruises of lips and teeth.

She hadn't been made for cinders, steel, or crude iron. Indulgence, pleasure, beauty: these were Aphrodite's domains, and no one would waylay the Goddess when her passions were peaked. Her poor ineffectual husband hadn't been able to peak anything within her for some time—not that she openly encouraged Hephaestus' ministrations. Just the thought of those blistered hands pawing her, those misshapen legs trailing along her perfect limbs, was enough to cool the blood. Redoubling her efforts, the Goddesses long, shaped nails scored down her lover's back, the skin devoid of the blemishes that made her husband's body so unappealing.

Aphrodite was not made for guilt. Her body opened of its own accord, for her own pleasure, and not on anyone's whim. There were no games between herself and Gods like Ares, no preconceptions or questions. There was only want, only sweat and skin, and no thought of _property_ in the morning. But it was hard to feel bitter at the moment, with velvet muscle creating such delicious friction within her perfect body.

She hadn't expected the thick drapes to be ripped down, pouring shimmering mid-day light into her marble boudoir, nor the heavy, golden, web-like net to descend from high, stilling her lover's movements but locking their limbs together in a surprised mass of flesh.

Laughter followed from all sides as immortal faces emerged from the corners, eyes wide, teeth gleaming. Zeus, Athena, Apollo, Dionysus: Aphrodite saw them all while Ares' face buried into the crook of her shoulder. But she saw them all with clear eyes and firm jaw. No one would make the Goddess of Love feel inferior, not even her husband who tried to stand so stoically among the mockery. She understood. Hephaestus had expected outrage from the others, condemnation and disgust. But this was just another incident in the sad little life of Hera's crippled son. They expected nothing less from Aphrodite, but Hephaestus?

He was simply a cuckold.


	3. Poseidon

And they were still young and fresh eons after the war. He had not visited Olympus in years but his siblings looked much the same as they had since the day he had taken over the dominion of the oceans.

Zeus and Hera welcomed him with open arms—the golden shod Goddess clinging ever so tightly to her distracted husband. Poseidon laughed gruffly, accepting their embraces, while a fine limbed youth waited nearby holding a chalice of rich ambrosia. The God said nothing, merely nodding as the threesome slipped away, still pretending to be two.

Demeter barely spared two words for him as she chased after a gleefully angelic child, her eyes bright with youth and joy. Dionysus was engaged in hedonistic splendor with a mess of dark haired nymphs and waved his uncle over with an inebriated chuckle, but Poseidon raised his hand in greeting and moved on. Lust would be there on his return but for now he wanted to explore his ancestral home.

Nine women in gold silk stood together, one clasping a harp, another a flute, their voices melding into a symphony sweet enough to charm the stars from the sky. The daughters of Zeus were made to be enticing but these musicians did not stir his heart. Poseidon was here for a wife.

In a corner, removed from the flowing drink and debauchery, sitting in the shadow of three marble pillars, the hearth Goddess tended the sacred fire of Olympus. Poseidon watched with folded arms as she stoked the coals and cedar, as the flames reflected and played upon the plains of her soft, pale face. They were all young, unchanged, but his eldest sister had something none of them would ever have: innocence. He could smell it between the flames, see it in the movements of her wrists as she pushed aside her heavy veils to reveal a cascade of golden curls dotted with almond oil and ash.

Poseidon held his breath, wanting to swim in her aura of gentleness. Every movement was soft, careful, as if the fire was a beloved child, and he could only imagine what a vision she would make holding his own children.

The singing finished, the Muses dispersed, and to Poseidon's ire he watched his nephew enter the stillness of Hestia's sphere, leaning on an opposite pillar to observe the serene woman. A knot formed in the sea God's stomach as Apollo delicately stroked a thumb over the shining strings of his lyre, his fingers moving in silent tandem to Hestia's bends and leans. The younger God's muscles flexed and gleamed underneath his short tunic, the cream coloured material embroidered with thick gold thread, emphasizing his lean strength. Poseidon's broader bulk tensed as their eyes met across the room, and while a smug, conceited smile curved Apollo's mouth Poseidon felt his own face turn to stone.

He approached her two weeks later, when all attempts at wooing had failed on both sides and the Goddess of the Hearth had publicly made her oath on Zeus' head to never know an intimate touch. Her movements were no longer smooth and careful, her stillness had been broken, but Poseidon did not observe these changes. Her solid rejection had been like the breaking of an abcess but the wound would not heal, and on his last day on Olympus Poseidon put the question of marriage once again to his sister.

"And how is fire to exist in water?" she had finally yelled at him, dropping her poker on the sooty floor. Besides proclaiming her oath of celibacy he had not heard Hestia raise her voice above motherly sternness but Poseidon did not observe the Goddesses tortured eyes or trembling hands. His dignity and pride had been shaken by her refusal. "You are cold Poseidon, and you are killing me!"

He left without a word, left her to the corner and the fire, and fucked a nymph thoughtlessly against the wall before exiting the palace of his birth. The next time he wished to marry he would chase the Goddess down, demanding her hand or her head as consequence for refusal.

There would be no refusal but the God of Storms and Earthquakes would find no satisfaction. Amphitrite was a being of the waves. Poseidon was still searching for the stillness.


	4. Psyche

**Author's Note:** Short one this time I know. I've been looking at other Greek mythological figures, otherwise I'd be writing nothing but Hestia tales, but I enjoyed writing this.

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Every time she asks he says no.

Every time they make love they do so in darkness. She's felt him place silk around her eyes, linen strips, once thick scented leather that bit into her temples and wound vice-like around her slender wrists. She's seen shadows in candlelight, a glimpse of shoulder, a knee, but even after two months he still says no.

She imagines hair like jet, so long and sheer it lays twisted atop his head with velvet bands. She imagines soft sunset curls and honey eyes and skin the shade of oak. He's smooth underneath her fingertips but she still has not watched his eyes when he comes inside her; she has not seen his chest rise and fall as they lay in post-coital bliss afterwards.

Her sisters have begun to question. They mention scales and spells and monsters and they leave her wondering about the immortal she has taken to her bed, who rests his head upon her pounding breast before departing each dawn. She wonders if it's right to allow him such liberties with her body, God of Love or no. She's been wondering when it is time to stop asking.


	5. Cassandra

**1**

I don't love him. He comes to me for my beauty, for my innocent eyes that stare in wonder on his glory; but no matter how his halo of golden locks shine enough to blind me, I know his heart is cold.

**2**

War has come to Troy. Our streets are silent and in secret my mother weeps. I warned them to leave Helen to the Greeks, to her own husband and army of sworn suitors, but my brother's lusts would not be denied.

The fair daughter of Zeus finds no support among our women and I refuse to be a shoulder for her selfish tears. I have seen her future and it is more than she deserves even though she will take my twin with her unto the flaming pyre.

I am labeled liar, cheat, lunatic, and it's hard not to listen to their jeers. They tell me to pray, to find favour once again among our Gods. If what I had was favour I would rather be locked inside the blackest pit of Tartarus, to never see the sun again nor be watched by it neither. Apollo has done me no favours—but then that is to be expected when I did none for him.

**3**

The waves are unnatural, and my mouth is constantly filled with salt. I have stopped trying to understand the logic of this journey. My new master listens to my visions as my family did, and, like them, Agamemnon will soon find his end. Death awaits us both at the end of a knife.

Princess no more. Innocent no more.


	6. Dionysus and Pentheus

He licked his injured lip slowly, savouring the taste of blood and wine and the irony of the situation into which he was currently ensnared. His wrists were bound, harsh twine rubbing his immaculate flesh; his eyes were hazy, and he looked up half-lidded as his captor circled. Dionysus could have laughed—_would have_ if a semblance of decorum had not been called for. The God didn't understand decorum, but he could carry it off when the time warranted. His still wore his pants, which was most assuredly an insult. King Pentheus of Thebes was certainly not going to fuck him, and if sexual exploits were not on tonight's menu then what was the point? Surely there were better uses for a good length of rope.

"You know why you are here Immortal." At least there was a twinge of awe in that tone. Dionysus would think that for now.

"Remind me," his full mouth purred, thick lashes dusting sweaty cheekbones. It had been a hard night. There was a quick movement to the left of his vision, and a _thwack_ echoed through the marble hall as a thin cane sliced down upon the God's bent shoulders. His chest pushed forward, eyebrows rising.

"You are an abomination upon our fair city!" Pentheus' voiced railed. Nothing about this abuse seemed fair to Dionysus. "You defile our women, bring them into your wanton acts and lead them into excess, away from their homes and husbands"—_Oh that's what this is all about!_—"And my citizens will stand for it no more! No longer shall the Olympians think Thebes is their personal whoring ground and you," the King grabbed Dionysus' deep earth coloured locks, pulling back hard so the immortal's neck bent painfully backwards, "you will be my warning to the others."

Dionysus' ambrosia soaked laughter boomed around the mortal king, startling the servants waiting in the wings with linen cloths, secretly hoping for a chance to clean up immortal blood. Was Pentheus mad?! Just because his cup had run too freely last night, did Pentheus truly believe Dionysus would _let_ himself be murdered? By a badly dressed prudish king no less?! He leaned back even further, bound arms resting against muscled thighs and tight belly. He could feel Pentheus' grip falter slightly but then the shaped nails scraped harder along the God's scalp. If the king wasn't bent on Dionysus' destruction the God would have felt flattered. "You dare?!"

"You're being an ass." Another sharp tug and then the sheen of a Theban blade to the God's right. Dionysus coughed and rolled his eyes. "No, no, let's talk about this. We can make a deal."

"There is nothing to say and you have nothing I want." _I doubt that._ "Now will you accept your fate like a true God or…"

"I accept a lot of things," Dionysus smirked. Dead mother, premature birth, constant mead-induced headaches: he had accepted much in his existence. "But I think you're being too hasty. Do you even know what you are objecting against Pentheus? Whose word are you taking that my worship is evil incarnate?"

The king's cool gaze relented momentarily. _Sure. __**Now**__ he chooses to think clearly_.

"What are you suggesting God?"

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The wine flowed; the harps and flutes rang sweetly, strongly, throughout the grove, driving the lithe Bacchantes from soft steps upon the grass to leaping bounds. Their thick leather masks shined with hanging decorations of silver and glass; thin, gauzy fabrics swathed their intoxicated limbs. Only one among them participated with clean eyes, with thicker robes, with a mask that covered almost the entirety of their face.

Pentheus had accepted Dionysus' challenge. He moved amongst the dancing women, holding a wooden cup like the rest but not fully pressing to be one of the chosen center group. While he had many strong opinions on the nature of these meetings, Pentheus really didn't know what was expected of him beyond the quick notes the God had given him.

A hand caressed his shoulder, then another. The dancers were all touching now, all reaching for contact, closer and closer to each other: Sisters of sorts. Disgusting. Pentheus swallowed thickly, eyes roaming across suddenly exposed creamy stomachs and thrusting bosoms, delicate hands and matronly calves. It was more than his moral heart could take when hands began to rhythmically push between upright legs.

He was being moved, adjusted, pushed to the inner circle where the red veiled leaders swayed and guzzled amber coloured libations. Here it was! Here was the truth! Here was the center of the Immortals caustic ways! Pentheus never thought that the others would follow or that masks would be ripped. Drunken faces smiled down with slit-like eyes in the dim gleam, and, shocked, the king could not fight back as chants of 'Sacrifice' grew and slim feet knocked him to the ground.

Panicked, Pentheus opened his mouth in horror as one naked Bacchante straddled his unclothed hips, knife raised high above her silver head….

"Mother?"


	7. Salmacis

She approached cautiously, silently, like a silver ripple in the pool in which it bathed.

It was her pool. The cool, clear water called to her skin. It breathed along her slick raven tresses; the mist rising with the dawn was perfumed breath to her immortal senses. A warbling cockatrice had pulled her from her dark domain in the early hours, imparting secrets of poor Eos and her young mortal husband. Salmacis did not understand. Her confusion only increased as she slithered, an ethereal cloud, through the dense wood.

The body was…indescribable. It's head was golden but it's back was strong. Salmacis had yet to see it's face but already ideas ran through her pretty little mind. A stubbled jaw with wide, all-seeing eyes? Thick, sinewy limbs half encased in her liquid abode? A ruddy mouth sneering at her brassy-green companions? The thought narrowed Salmacis' ebony eyes. How dare this being dare touch _her_ home! Did it breath the waves like air? Did it speak to creatures both of the water and the land? Did it call the rivers Father?!

Her movements grew bitter, harsher in their beauty as she pushed past leaf and vine. Her fine bones looked reptilian in the dewy light, her dark eyes ancient and alone. She would teach this _thing_ to tread upon her home. But then she saw….

The Being sat in a thin veil of Helios' lantern. It's head leaned graciously towards the blue surface of the pool, soft hands cupping water and dribbling it down limbs crowned with delicate, pale hair. It's face…Salmacis had to stop and watch behind a tall willow. Gentle eyes gazed out of a face that seemed to offer comfort and courage all at once. Soft, sweeping eyebrows and a full bow mouth: one step, then another, brought her to within grasping distance when the Being stood—like a frightened hart caught in the thicket.

A solid waist spread down to strikingly smooth thighs, a glisteningly heavy maleness lying limp between the two pine-like limbs. The nymph's eyes stared in wonder, her lips fluttering at words, then murmurs. A touch of Godhood floated on the Being's essence but Salmacis could not comprehend exactly what this Being was: masculine gentility with an aura of the feminine.

About to speak, Salmacis was suddenly wrapped in the cool embrace of tempest arms, her hair streaming up and out around the corona of her head. Blinded by her own twisting tresses, the nymph blinked as the object of her amazement disappeared. Her heart pulled, a deep line of beaten rope dragging from the very depths of her ancient soul. _Where did It go? _

How cruel to snatch such loveliness away? How cruel to tease and then deny a touch? A word? A quiver trailed down the immortal's throat and she raised her hand towards the emptiness, her pool glimmering sadly now. _Lost._ She had wasted time with hate when time was never have supposed to matter.


	8. Persephone

**A/N: Short one, I know. Sigh.**

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A dainty hand reached out to trail along the supple limb of a tall birch tree. There were hundreds of then, proud branches crossing and connecting and finding their way towards the waning light of a late summer sun. The girl could feel the change run through her, like ancient leaves gathering around her spine. Like spider's legs wrapping the next meal.

Her pink feet pressed deeply into wet moss, a trickle of dark water winding over the flushed skin of her high instep. the birds were gone. Sparrows, robins, hummingbirds, ravens: she was their mother, master, daughter, and now they had abandoned her. Her bright eyes stared fiercely at the yellow blossoms that grew on clustered bushes near the water. Small blue heads peeked up from the green floor. Forget-me-nots. She swore she wouldn't but knew it was a lie.

A red leaf—the very first—lost it's home and fell, crying out for what it knew of family, and Persephone felt a ripple in her heart, watching the lost foliage drift and echo the next phase of her existence. Autumn had come but the land may as well have been cut away with a knife of frost, and as the expected arm encircled her waist Persephone knew her palace of death awaited.


	9. Penelope

The tangy scent of salt water had become a part of the castle battlements; there was no escaping the dry taste on the tongue, the dampness on the thick tapestries that tried fruitlessly to keep out such annoyances and structural damage. The ancient steps were smooth, the marble gates badly in need of fresh mortar and chiseling, and for the women locked inside these ten years the scent of the sea wafted off their freckled skin and plaited hair.

But it was not Poseidon's trident that breached the barriers of Queen Penelope's bower, nor did The Winds gently blow despair away from the woman's work weary eyes. A thief had come in the middle of the night and stolen such reserve and guilt away from Odysseus' devout wife.

They moved upon her cold bed like vapours, silent in the darkness, unwilling to alert maids or greedy suitors to the electric friction generated between their thighs. In these late hours Penelope could pretend her King had at last returned, nourishing her body and soul once more, stripping away the solitary walls she would once again create come morning. In these late hours, as he thrusts against pale hips and gathers ropes of sea fresh chestnut braids within his fists, Hermes could imagine the proud child that would be born, that would never see it's mother but would possess all her pride and anger; a child mortals would fear and unfortunately despise, but one whom he could love.

She finished with a soft murmur, content with a dream of a man, while the God contented himself with a muffled grunt into the saltiness of her reddened breasts. The seas would change and Odysseus would return and Penelope would believe these encounters fantasies of a sorrowful wife left behind. The waters of Ithaca would continue.

But of the thief there would be no sign.

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A/N: This one just didn't turn out the way I wanted for some reason. For such a short snippet it took an awful long time to write and I'm still not happy with it. Oh well. I'm looking forward to the upcoming stories though--I have several planned out already including a little mini-series about Hestia (my favourite) and Moros (whom has become my favourite villian).


	10. Apollo and Artemis

Theban hills were silent this night, the celebrations passed and a time of fasting and prayer to come. Wine had flowed in great rivers, sugars and pastries the same, as the populations tried to force their fill of decadence before penitence took over.

Yes. All was silent throughout the great halls of Amphion's palace. The King himself lay curled around his fertile wife, lavender and violets strewn around their sweaty bed, oblivious to the intruders walking through the nursery. Of course some of the twelve should have been parents themselves by now, but no. Fierce protectiveness halted the natural progression of life for these Not-Children. Their parents demanding such beauty stay near. Glorious bodies untouched by mortal hands, no kingdoms of their own, no celebrations to over see.

Artemis smiled gently at the six girls and began to notch her silver bow. Their lithe forms were spread languidly across sheltered beds, canopied tops covered with white linen sheets while softly rounded chests moved up and down. Apollo strode beside the beds of Niobe's sons, their tanned arms stretched over down-filled pillows and unused cocks waiting for the first warm fist to hold them. The God's golden bow reflected his stony glare.

If not for their mother's drunken boasts all twelve would have remained unnoticed by vengeful eyes—Immortal eyes whom loved _their_ mother's honour more than the lives of twelve royal brats.

Tomorrow, the Theban hills would wail.


	11. Actaeon

And a walk in the woods had been meant to encourage relaxation.

His hounds were on the look out, scouting ahead and behind in the deep thickets for game; boar and hare were supposedly roaming this time of year and Actaeon was excited to start building this years trophy wall. Slobbering jaws opened in silent screams while aubergine tongues lolled out over muted teeth. Dominance: becoming a wild thing in the midst of wild things and coming out victorious.

Layers and layers of overburdened branches waved after each step of his tightly sandaled feet, their musky scented blossoms tracing over his defined limbs, stroking through misted droplets of perspiration and leaving cream petals in their wake.

The bow in his hand was made of precious oak, oiled with cloves and rubbed into hardness by two generations of use. The quiver of arrows at his back was light, barely there, but he knew that each perfectly formed shaft lay within reach; the dove feathers had been oiled as well, the sharp edge true, merely waiting to be shot.

There was water nearby, lapping. The dogs had heard it and were scrounging their way through the undergrowth while Actaeon moved stealthily forward. This would be a good place; all animals had to drink, perhaps some would stop in the shade. Plump meat. The hounds had become surprisingly silent, but as Actaeon pushed aside the last green branch the state of his faithful dogs was the last thing on his mind.

As a little stream deposited water into a small pond dappled with white lilies and faded leaves, bodies writhed on the bank nearby. A dozen or more partners, small groups—all reaching, and grasping, and panting. Actaeon's eyes widened, his breathing stilled. There were lusciously rounded hips arching to the touch of feminine fingers and tongues; muscular thighs, seemingly carved out of the trees themselves, wrapped around waists and over smooth shoulders; sculpted breasts shimmered with lovers juices, past kisses.

As the gasping built in one corner Actaeon felt his tunic stretch, and then his own mouth went slack. Lifting herself from a moaning girl slick with sweat was the most beautiful woman the hunter had even seen. A cascade of chestnut curls fell in a damp mess over firm mocha arms; a predatory gleam filled her smile as she looked down upon the languid blond beneath her perfect form. But it was the silver crescent emblazoned on her forehead that forced an incoherent grunt to echo from Actaeon's throat.

"Goddess…."

Her head jerked in his direction, immortal ears catching his whisper even while surrounded by the orgy of her attendants.

"Trespasser."

The transformation was quick, and as Actaeon became a wild thing amongst wild things the last noise he heard was the gnashing of fangs personally trained to kill from birth.

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**A/N: I'm so surprised to see that this fic has had over 2000 hits, but for those of you who enjoy my parley with the immortals I hope you keep coming back for more :D**


	12. Hestia pt One

**A/N: So this is the beginning of a longer snippet story I have in mind and had mentioned earlier, about Hestia, Goddess of the Hearth, and Moros, God of Doom. I never would have known there was such a deity if not for a role playing game. Ah rpg's...the cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems. Anyway, I know they aren't the most popular of characters--but that's never really been a deciding factor in whom I choose to write about, in fact it still makes me giggle that it seems a lot of people have skipped the 'Penelope' chapter...It's probably not what you think it is but oh well! **

**I know I'm messing with canon. Yep. That's what I do.**

**As far as warnings go: attempted rape, disturbing content, possible internal dilemna and violence. So...many things that come under the M category.**

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"_What happens on earth stays on earth."_

**Part One**

It had been a wonderful wedding.

Plion had been wise to invite everyone to his only daughter's wedding. None could claim prejudice now; none could claim a spurned ego and revenge against the tremendously happy couple. The old king had spared no expense: magnificent topiaries dotted the landscape, casting delightfully bestial shadows as Helios' golden orb dropped lower and lower; gauzy canopies offered relief from the assortment of insects and pests that called Earth home but that the assembled Immortals had no patience for—they covered large recliners gilt in gold and precious velvet; musicians whom seemed never to tire played upon fine tambours and lyres, the sweet notes accompanying the tinkle of bells covering the bride, marking her as the Lady of this celebration and touchable only to one and one alone. Dancing! The ground shook with hearty steps and graceful flourishes as nearly each Goddess attempted their own interpretation of the player's songs. Their male counterparts were content to sit and watch appreciatively—some using the time to discuss the merits of several mortals present or political restructuring in this new bright age of Olympic freedom—with Dionysus the only exception, the God of Revels being equally at home among rowdy females as rowdy men.

Not one guest languished for want of food or drink. Mead and the usual sour wine loved by mortals flowed freely from barrel to cup, barrel to cup, the servants barely giving the honoured guests time enough to consider the emptiness of their vessels. From the end of the ceremony food had been carted out onto the field from the castle kitchens in long lines, burly serving men holding aloft trays of giant boar and deer, fruits or every imaginable size and colour. Plion had been wise in this point as well. Local priestesses had made sacrifice during the preparation of each course, thus insuring that no prayers were to be missed during the inebriated event to follow.

Plion had been very wise indeed.

Unfortunately, Hestia could not currently claim the same virtue.

The gentle Goddess would have been pleased enough with returning to her fire after gladly bestowing her blessings on the glowing bride, but her siblings would have none of it and stationed Hestia amongst themselves. For a time. As each hour passed so did more and more drink, more rich delicacies, more beautiful willing mortals, and thus one sister was quite easily forgotten in the congenial mood that pervaded all on such on occasion. Hestia did not mind and had quietly removed herself when it became clear that Zeus was eager to examine the affects of mortal wine on his splendidly arrayed wife as well as the softly muscled boy who waited on them as ever he had on Olympus.

The field was dark, only sweetly scented scones burned, flickering besides the wedding canopies and painting a macabre image of those still inside. Hestia averted her soft grey eyes as she walked, following the rolling sounds of the sea and the kingdom that was locked to her by her own volition. It was still a beautiful night, still a beautiful wedding, and as she gazed up into the inky blackness dotted with blazing crystals Hestia simply accepted the wares of a passing tray without judgement, the heady scent of spiced mead overpowered by the salty sea air. The cup was empty before she knew it, before she realized she was seated on the ground in the dark, her robes fluttering in the wind, her veil hanging loose about her shoulders and leaving her golden tresses bare to the night.

Hestia could feel the warm liquid travel within her, so unlike the clear water which was her staple. Anything else near fire was irresponsible and so the Goddess was unprepared for the confusing effects, the heaviness of her limbs, or how the small world around her seemed to feel so much softer. A smile graced her calm visage, not surprising but almost new, as if the quirk at the corner of her mouth would inform an observer that the virginal Goddess, sister of Kings, had just learned a secret in her solitude. There was still music floating in the air, still voices coming from secluded places. Still. Hestia stretched an arm out and lay down, resting her head in the curve of her elbow. Everything was still. Even when she felt the hand on her shoulder Hestia's lids continued to fall. There was someone above her and she blinked tiredly, unable to raise a protest as her chin was turned and fingers ran down her unmarked throat.

But she knew this one. Had it been one hundred, two hundred years since she had last watched him play with his cousins and half-siblings? She had seen him frighten them, watched as his father laughed: Hermes and Aphrodite's son, Priapus.

This wasn't right, and she tried to twist away but it only appeared as another stretch, her forehead furrowing as the former content aura slipped trough her grasp while his solid palm found purchase underneath her naked knee. How had he pushed aside her voluminous fabrics so quickly? And where…where was her family? He was rubbing, grinding, and her unnecessary but eternally-used breast bindings were being loosened with each breath that she took. "Stop…" Hestia's hands were like smoke, useless where they lay, too fish-like to shove, and her loving eyes, eyes that captured the adoration of children, could not plead or remain open. "…Stop."

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, Priapus' weight was gone, leaving only the cool breeze to move across her uncovered breast bone and shoulders, to raise the pale hair along the sides of her thighs. She was glad and gave in to the fatigue.


	13. Moros pt Two

"_My hand is not clean"_

**Part Two**

She was supposed to have killed herself. Or at least been…seriously maimed. That was what had caught his attention in the first place as he sauntered across the wedding field, unwilling and uncaring to drop the ever-present sneer that slashed his darkened countenance.

It was not a coincidence; Moros was, after all, born of the Darkness, born before the Immortals who now claimed Olympus and existence as their domain. If his mother Nyx-- Night herself--had not demanded his presence he would have been glad enough to stalk the forests of Thebes or wander the preparing battlefields of some distant shore. Doom was always needed no matter what combatants thought, no matter the outcome or intent. So he walked and watched the dancers with disdain, avoided the celebratory toasts towards the happy couple and their life of procreation and success, and caught the scent of Possibility on the wind.

As experienced as he was, Moros could usually tell a potential suicide when he saw one; there was emptiness, a vacancy that they carried within themselves that no one else could see. He could see. And it made eternity bearable to do so.

But he wasn't quite as sure as he followed the figure that had purposely separated from the assembled guests. She. She would have to be one of the invited; the indentured servants wore little more than strips of linen while this female was so covered she may as well have been wearing a bed. Rolling his eyes, Moros waited for the woman to take those few extra leaps and throw herself over the cliff she was steadily headed towards. Most likely a widow mourning the loss of her own husband, driven to despair by the day's festivities; perhaps a ruined wet nurse found muddling with the stable hands while the infant suffered alone and hungry. It truly didn't matter the reason, he always found out in the end and with time enough to push the distraught over that mental edge they held onto with trembling fingertips.

He did not expect to watch her collapse onto the night-damp grass, or to see a mass of golden curls suddenly appear as her dark veil slipped off almost sparkling in the starlight—What? No. He wasn't nearly so poetic. Besides the empty cup that rolled away from her sitting form there was no hint of metal, no blade, and no sorrow in the tilt of her head or humble arch of her languid spine. He remained standing, wrapped in shadow, disgruntled that he was losing a death to reconsideration. But…why was she so frighteningly familiar? It wouldn't be surprising, given the amount of time he spent amidst mortals, feeding off their vices and bloodlust and pain like sweet ambrosia. But here? She lay down, her movements, if not gentile, then soft. It took him a moment to realize someone else had followed her as well, with staggering movements as if a stick—

Moros could have laughed. Priapus: the only man who could truthfully claim to have a column between his legs. It seemed as if his advances would not be spurned tonight. Moros was disgusted. They had obviously planned this rendezvous and if his attention had been diverted for another minute he could have currently been witness to an image that even his eyes would never be able to blink away.

And then Priapus moved her.

The God of Doom would have frozen if he was a lesser Immortal but as it stood he simply watched as was expected, as he had always done. Even the supposed innocent were tempted—he knew that well—and his first assumption was quite possibly still correct. No one was that pure. And when it came to purity the Goddess of the Hearth surpassed imaginings. What would her protective circle say once she returned to the flock spoiled? Surely a God of Priapus' size would leave visible evidence of their dalliance, leave an odour that any used to such activities would recognize immediately? Did she think so little of her oath? Everyone knew of the words sworn on Zeus' head, honoured by Zeus, were like stone. The Goddess was putting too much faith in her brother's love as far as Moros was concerned.

"_Stop…"_

The breeze caught against the Goddess' repositioned robes just as her voice caught Moros' attention. Stop? She hadn't been waiting for this bull of a God to deflower her untouched body? She hadn't been waiting to throw her family and status away for the first taste of carnal knowledge? Well then. This was a most interesting development. Deliberate personal destruction had its moments, but was traditionally followed by weeks, years of guilt and self-denial and that was uninspiring. This sort of forced doom could have far reaching, long lasting consequences: Priapus' certain and inevitable death; Hestia's ruin and loss of character in the eyes of those who loved her; perhaps even the demise of, or, at the very least banishment of, Hermes and Aphrodite for allowing their son to go unchecked this long. Dangerous indeed.

"…_Stop."_

Moros grunted. She had not been physically prepared for whatever libation she had consumed—he watched her wrists bend sloppily in useless protest as proof—and she was not prepared for the act Priapus was trying to force on her. In a supreme act of generosity Moros had had enough. In any event the ravisher looked to be enjoying himself already; any interruption would obviously cause him pain. With a flick of his shift Moros was stalking the occupied couple, one of which could barely keep her eyes open, the other too busy trying to remove his partner's garments to realize the God of Doom was standing above them both.


	14. Priapus pt Three

"_And began to poison the house with its venom."_

**Part Three**

Nymphs, dryads, mortals, Goddesses, priestesses, cunts: spoiled princesses caught in their own dreams of sexual superiority while he languished with an ailment he had no control over but which they could ease with a squeeze of their precious fists. Bitches. One would think being born the son of Aphrodite and the greatest trickster to every see the stars would have given Priapus some credibility in the realm of carnal encounters. It should have been a matter of status and nature. He was a God! Immortal! Who were they to balk at a little pain? The fact that it was _he_ causing it should have been enough!

It had not been so much of a problem in the early days. He had been surrounded by women then, being counted among the younger generation and needing to be cared for and tended. Back then Persephone and Demeter had actually had conversations without the ground being forced to yield rotten fruit; Eros and Anteros had threatened their elder brothers freely with arrows of silver and lead; Dionysus had yet to make a stand on the subject of thrones. He had followed Pan for a while, relishing the outdoors and time with Hermes' other illegitimate son not to mention the variety of women to cross their paths and stay to entertain. But then an abnormal nature had responded and the organ which had once given him such pleasure suddenly became the bain of Priapus' existence. No tunic was long enough—and after a while coverings simply fuelled his irritation—and no amount of manual stimulation could satisfy.

Spread legs, consensually or otherwise, were a thing of the past.

Weddings. Bah! Priapus was not wanted here but he would never give these peons the satisfaction of giving them exactly what they wanted with his refusal. Drink and food, toast, drink and food. The dancing was unbearable, especially when Iris began to toss a ribboned hoop through the air, slipping it under and around her long legs and dainty feet, revealing bronzed flesh with each movement. Nyx in her black splendour, Aphrodite too busy to bother with the visual foreplay, Bia showing everyone what uses should truly be found with rope: Priapus was not allowed to touch; they were not for him. And his cock was begging for a simple release. Frenzied!

He staggered passed canopied bowers, hissing at the sounds that travelled forth: moist flesh slapping, sucks and nips and panting—Dear Chaos! The panting made him stop and shudder, veins pulsing, clenching, damp skin on the back of his neck. He kept moving, pushing large brown curls out of his still-boyish face with rough, painful movements, avoiding the searching orange and yellow light of the flaming wedding scones. In the dark at least Priapus could stroke and touch and _pretend_ that his actions would produce the well-needed relief, without the condescending, pitying looks of his father's contemporaries or the scared, disgusted looks of whores. There was no stillness, no silence, as the lapping waves only mocked and the wind teased and the bodies fell in heaps.

…Bodies?

Something had happened…there had been a moment near the cliff, a flutter, like starling wings folding, coming to rest in an empty home. His head slowly dropped to his left shoulder, eyes focused. There weren't bodies over there. There was a body: a breathing form swathed in rich fabric not nearly thick enough to disguise the generous swell of feminine hip and thigh. Not from his eyes.

His sandaled feet moved forward of their own accord, quicker than Priapus could deliver the command, and a red tongue slipped out to drag across dry lips. Her hair glimmered, thick, strong, and golden; supple arms stretched above as if the earth was her own chaise, the sky her canopy. He knelt, barely mindful of his extremities, reaching out a trembling hand to push down her shoulder as a feral grin spread over his mouth. Silly, stupid women…

Priapus had already positioned himself above her, gazing down on the incredibly familiar visage, instinct directing faster, further. He knew this one well: a fixture of many childhoods, a warm embrace and gentle ear, soft mouth. Priapus' fingers followed the paleness that was her arched throat, thumb caressing the indentation that separated two motherly collarbones—a sleeping place that never once cut or bruised an infant's cheek. He lowered his weight as far as he could without crushing the flesh that now currently defined him and felt his eyes roll back. Dropping his forehead upon her breast, for the first time in years Priapus indulged in a pleasurable tingling while listening to the slow, steady beat of the Goddess' heart; he needed to touch and to feel and one hand reached down to pull up her robe, palm gliding over the round muscle of calf and claiming it's position under her bare knee. Oh yes.

Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell, arms moving languidly over the grass, fingers scarred with an eternity of fire-tending. Soft, so soft: Hestia would never fault him for this, no, she had always been welcoming, the kind one amongst arrogant weakling slobs! He was worshipping at her altar, asking for the peace someone like the Hearth Goddess would have to bestow. One thrust against respectable fabric. Another—He had to see her chest, had to see those pale globes knowing he was the only one to do such with this woman beneath him. To feel what no one else had ever felt. Why did she dress in robes enough to cover five matrons?! Shawls, veils, breast bindings! Did she believe it a deterrent for the truly desirous?

"_Stop…" _

He grunted, tugging on her collar, bending her knee which lolled lazily. She was uncomfortable but it was to be expected without the luxury of Olympian marble and foreign silk! Fucking tease.

"…_Stop." _

Priapus could have slapped her, could have hauled back his fist and—How dare she?! Frigid bitch! He shifted his hips, feeling her thighs spread, pushing her coverings higher: a taste of warmer skin under his pushing fingers.

And then just as quickly it was taken away. He felt a sting as a large hand clamped down on the pronounced tendons of his neck and then he was lifted, flying through the air and landing in an extremely painful heap some yards away. Priapus reared back, rage burning in Immortal eyes as he took in the figure who had stolen his chance at perfection.

"What do you think you're doing Moros?"

The other God gave Priapus a look of deep disinterest before turning to the unconscious Goddess on the ground.

"For some reason I cannot decipher I am apparently saving your worthless hide." One arm hooked under Hestia's knees, the other lifting to support her torso. "Your destruction would have been marvellous too. As would hers."


	15. Moros pt Four

"_And Logic threatens to overpower and destroy me."_

**Part Four**

He did not stop until the columns of Olympus loomed like sentinels, until the walls of Hestia's sacred nook crowded around him, making him wish to coat the darker marble with vomiting bile and filth—anything to take away this image of serenity that her sleeping presence only magnified in these cavernous rooms. It was a false image, a lie Moros saw through easily but…in her private corner, with the fire burning steadily and an amphora of water waiting patiently, the God of Doom had the startling impression that here it wasn't entirely so. He pushed that thought aside, still not quite sure he had made the correct decision in saving Hestia from a demise that would have been glorious in its simplicity.

Nudging a cast iron poker away and sneering at a layer of soot and ash before moving onward and laying the Goddess down on what he could only assume was her bench, Moros sighed. He would be incredibly dim to stay here any longer, in fact if any other Olympian were to stumble home at this moment he would have essentially replaced Priapus' fate with his own, and Moros had no desire to attract this sort of attention from overprotective divine siblings nor the legions of supportive children that Hestia undoubtedly brainwashed on a daily basis to defend her honour. It was disconcerting that she continued to mile in her sleep. Women Moros usually witnessed in her circumstances did not smile but he supposed it was her status that allowed that, that even in the vulnerable position of unconsciousness her Olympian—No. That wasn't right. He didn't understand her actions or her existence in this world of decadence and ultimate power. She didn't belong and yet hundreds flocked to her for blessing and reassurance. It was illogical.

Moros stared at the crackling flames, wondering at the spark; despite Zeus' claims to the contrary this was a harsh kingdom. Both Poseidon and Hades had dominions of silence and solitude if they so choose, but Olympus was bright and loud and distracting to Moros' numbed ears. The God lived in shadow, in recesses that minds like the Goddess beside him would never venture. He enjoyed it: the calculations and betrayals and bloodied souls; the dream caves in which his brothers spent eternity, concerned only with the imagination and how they could manipulate it; the world beyond in which his father Erebus commanded armies. Olympus was a speck, like so much debris in comparison to the places Moros knew as home. He could call up memories so rile as to blind the untrained acolyte: the clash of smouldered metal; headless ancients attacked by their own villagers; creative works defiled; innocence squandered or picked apart. Endless lists and endless moments repeated time and again that he was born to encourage and bear witness to, and _why_ did he bring this weak Goddess home?

He spared her what should have been a final glance, his face remote and unchanging as he realized she had been watching him for some unknown time. Their eyes met, his calculating because they had to be, hers gently questioning but not demanding. Why didn't she rail against him? He could only imagine Hera's or Athena's response should their positions be reversed. Why did this Goddess—no great beauty—simply move her pondering grey eyes to the fire, one hand lightly touching her uncovered chest as if to discover by osmosis what fingers or mouths had explored her body. He caught the slight tremble of her jaw and felt vindicated. Maybe she would cry and he would have an excuse to bring her back.

"Thank you." Her voice was clear and he watched as she sat up, tightening the bonds of cloth that had been adjusted, watching as her legs disappeared under the weight of linen layers. He raised an eyebrow as she suggested he leave, the sneer faltering as something akin to amusement replaced it. "I would not have Plion's family immersed in my mistake. It was…it was a beautiful wedding."

She was serious. There was no undertone, begging for her own anonymity, begging for silence on her behalf, her honour. _No one can be that pure._ She wished to protect those mortals from Olympian inquisitors and wrathful adorers seeking to place blame upon a myriad of sources simply because they could. Again Moros was struck by the situation and that for the second time tonight he was letting an opportunity slip through his fingers. To see the house of Plion fall from the wrath of Zeus himself: to see that blushing bride disgraced; to see her brothers slaughtered as divine protection was removed and rage took over. The land would shake and become barren, starvation forcing tenants to seek farms elsewhere—to plunder and pillage and kill. Absolutely glorious.

_Why_ had be brought this Goddess home?

Moros watched her, how her breathing was not laboured, how her hair was not in wild disarray around her full cheeks, how she was completely sure he would comply.

"Why the sea Hestia? You concealed yourself so well, I thought you were a mortal about to add yourself to my numbers." He should have left but Moros would have some justification tonight, some reason for his minute change in character, even if it was only to hurt her now. That seemed the outcome as, for the first time, he watched a blush spread across her face, colouring her ears and moving down the still-unmarked column of her throat to disappear…"Why the sea?"

"They are my secrets alone Moros." He recognized the inflections in her speech, subtle though they were, and how the scarred hand resting on her leg had clenched for just a second, revealing more then he would have thought.

"Yes." He smiled now, satisfied, and turned to leave, to return to his own palace where actions made sense and screams were plentiful. "Always alone."


	16. Hestia pt Five

_"You can't be crying now."_

**Part Five**

It was only at the very height of the festivities, when the sound of bawdy song and clanging platters had rendered important ears mute to all but the merriment, whisks of fabric and clapping hands, that Hestia could slip away and admit to herself that just maybe her smile was beginning to crack the soft tissue upon her cheeks. As wonderful as it was to have the palace halls warm with joyous laughter and joking banter once again, to have petty arguments put aside for even a short time, it had been distressing to see Poseidon and Amphitrite walk through Olympus surrounded by their glorious children for the very first time. It had been an unexpected and unwanted emotion and the Hearth Goddess had immediately felt ashamed.

Her sister-in-law was as graceful and sweet as the turquoise waters from which she had been born, her hair a rippling sheet of oyster gleam, lips of coral, her eyes bright, understanding but unquestioning. Poseidon had made the perfect choice it would seem and Hestia—even if it were her bent—had no right to hypocrisy. Their children were wind-chapped and lovely, a dozen ragamuffins she perched warmly on her lap, who wondered at her scarred hands and fire-golden curls, the eldest boy and girl receiving considerate touches of sacred oil across their brows. Triton and Rhode had bowed respectfully before racing off to join their brood of cousins in new play, the sturdy youth and sleek maiden showing more of their grandfather's blood in their dark colouring. Amphitrite had been delighted, squeezing Hestia's hands in sisterly affection which had made the fire lady's heart soar and thus further regret her earlier disquiet. Conversation had continued sweetly between the two, sharing stories and gentle laughter until Poseidon had searched out his wife for the banquet.

Nothing had changed between brother and sister and it almost broke Hestia's heart for a second time. He had given her such a heated look _such a look_ while escorting his bride away that Hestia now found herself praying silently for another hearth on another mountain and that she wouldn't have to return to the raucous gathering anytime soon. She did what was expected and sat down to stoke the flames, her usually serenity replaced with a quiet look of desolation.

"And what makes you so solemn, Grandmother to the Masses?"

Hestia's eyes lowered and she inhaled a deep sighing breath. The God had been a cold shadow in these sun-drenched marble halls, disturbing the relative debauchery that was a staple of life amongst the Pantheon enough that even Zeus had murmured at Moros' presence—though none would dissuade the son of Dreaded Night without just cause. She didn't understand it herself but at least he had kept silent on the incident of the House of Plion. _Grandmother?_ Despite her golden curls and soft flesh, with his mocking tone Moros made her feel old; grandmother for all yet grandmother to none—it was the fate she had chosen. But Aphrodite had tried to teach her that a Goddess felt neither shame nor regret and so Hestia turned her head to face Doom.

"What brings you from the revels?" she asked simply, face still, no smile or frown to offer. He was not so kind—not that kindness was expected—and the sneer remained upon his cruel mouth.

"To see what tortures you of course. It is my calling." He observed, he calculated, he titled the scales whenever he could; what Moros did not do was sit down on her bench, the same bench he returned her to so many months ago. Months? It could have been decades, centuries; time meant so little to Immortals. His eyes, however, never left her face and though she didn't flinch Hestia disliked the weight of his gaze and how Moros' sneer was slowly becoming smug.

"I would have thought this occasion to set you rejoicing. Your _beloved_ brother returns with wife in hand, a new horde of brats for you to heap blessings and adorations on. I wonder why this should set your face to sorrow and send you slinking to this place of hiding."

"I am not hiding!" Hestia returned hotly, cheeks flaring, then immediately she stopped. She was giving Moros exactly what he wanted and she was a fool to do it. She lifted the iron poker. "…This is my place of honour, where I am expected to be—" The man snorted.

"Where they left you to be. Your family has little else use for sworn virgins I'm afraid, but I believe you knew that." He smirked and Hestia looked back to the fire. "If not for your Vow then Zeus himself would have taken you…or some other less than worthy creature." She swallowed. "And unlike your sisters, you would have none of _them_."

"Stop it."

"Lack of sex didn't bring you to the Hearth, Hestia; you've always been here." Moros stepped towards the sparks, eyes like obsidian as he dug out her heart. "And when you denied me the fall of an oligarchy I had to know what kept you. All answers pointed towards the ocean."

The ocean. Where he had discovered her trapped beneath Priapus; where she had stopped to gaze stoically on the life she could have had: Hestia hadn't the inclination or the nature for deceit, but her knuckles were white from grasping the iron and her eyes demanded wetness though she refused to blink for fear of what would happen. "To think you would have preferred Poseidon's rough embrace to that of Apollo's. I was rather surprised."

"Apollo was only a boy," she replied softly, refusing to look up when Moros came nearer. "But very beautiful and brave and much adored. Especially by Zeus…How could I ask the Father to choose between his Son and his Brother? Would you demand it of Erebus?" There was a pause and then a mocking grunt came from above.

"So to spare bruised egos you condemned yourself to an eternity of unending loneliness?" His laugh was a wretch's pain, the noose's braid, and the Goddess felt as if Hecate were crawling crone-like fingers down her spine. Hestia shook her head, her voice a whisper.

"We were all young then, and there was such a peace, such a peace and harmony that I had never known." How could she have known it? First born, first swallowed, last to see the glory of the world with Poseidon lifting her to walk on shaky legs: peace and harmony were as new as air, as new as earth beneath her feet. "Our uncles and aunts were spinning in Tartarus and we were finally free to live. The War was over and I-I would not have another placed at my feet."

"And so you tend the flame."

"Needs must be done."

"Then let me help you now." Hestia looked up sharply, her eyebrows furrowing unhappily as golden tresses slid around her shoulders.

"You help yourself Moros, and you would counsel me to greater tragedy. What help could you possibly give to ease my heart? To give me back the brother I once knew?" The sneer was back and she liked it not.

"Give me leave to speak with the Ruler of Old Triton's domain. The night before he and _sweet_ Amphitrite are to leave he will come here to you."

"To what purpose do you propose?" Here he shrugged.

"You say you want your brother returned? How else but to explain as you did to me." Hestia watched him walk away with careful eyes, eyes that were only learning wariness and suspicion, not one that had been trained in such arts inside the womb. "Your words are gentle Hestia and surely Poseidon would rather have those than avoidance…If the love he once had for you is true."

That comment stung and she did flinch. His smile was curled and full of bee stings. "What say you now Goddess?"

"Why do you do this?" she asked in all sincerity, no judgement evident but with a sad curiosity. "Your nature does not allow it." His eyes glittered on the edge of the firelight, figure half in and out of darkness.

"It seems I have become exceedingly generous where you are concerned. Now shall I make the arrangements?"

And she agreed.

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**A/N:** So it amazes me that people still keep coming back to this story; it has over 6300 hits and it hasn't been updated in such a freakin' long time. Thanks for the reviews and I'm glad you people keep coming back to read my take on mythology :)


	17. Hestia pt Six

_"You don't know how far I'd go."_

**Part Six**

The darkness grew—as much as she ever allowed the darkness to encroach upon her lonely corner of her King's world—shadows that licked upwards like obscene tongues on revered columns and slithered over the pristine marble, arachnid feet over muted grey and white; the Hearth was a mass of glowing embers and only a feathers flick of flame remained to illuminate the silent goddess on her bench. Hestia refused to shiver, though it was not lack of heat that induced the repetitive caressing of her robe-covered arms.

Poseidon was returning to his watery homeland tomorrow, his magnificent children and sweetly charming wife leaving with him on the morning mist, and Hestia could not say when she would see her Brother again. After tonight.

She had had nothing save for blind faith but Moros had been true to his word, approaching her once again after the evening feast to relate in his own way how Poseidon would meet with her before his departure. _"The Ocean Lord has agreed to see you Grandmother. Wait until all is hushed, dull your fire—you brought him humiliation once and he will speak now only in shadow—but he will come."_ Hestia had not been able to stop the surge that attacked her heart at his words, the rush of memory, and at once the voluntarily dethroned Goddess was ashamed. If she could have been as proud Hera or defiant Demeter the ache of loss would not have manifested as a weight of guilt laid at her own feet. Hera would have slain any male who would not immediately bow at her command; Demeter would have blighted the man's line unto the fifth generation whom dared to raise her ire; Hestia loved her Brother and unfortunately was not made to blame others nor ignore their emotions with glacial indifference.

Would he ever forgive her?

The Sacred Fire wavered sharply and Hestia raised her golden head, blinking grey orbs into the no longer empty shadows to where Poseidon waited, stormy eyes spearing her to the marble, the whirlwind stripping the elder Goddess of strength and heart. There had once been a time when…He had never been so distant and it was all her fault.

"I do not suppose to understand Moros or his compulsions," Hestia spoke softly, "but I am grateful for his intervention and you honour me with your presence, if only for a moment." There was no response from the God, no huff or grunt, no reply to say he wished her to proceed, just stony silence. She deserved little else she believed but the gentle woman began to elucidate anyway. It was impossible to remain indifferent, as detached as she had been explaining herself to Moros what with her beloved yet untouchable Brother standing stoically mere feet away. Centuries of ache in each quiet word, scarred hands tight upon her lap while the need to explain her actions became a desperation unfit for immortality, a need for peace of mind and a return to what once was between two.

"But no apology for actions rendered Sister?"

Hestia's breathing stilled as she watched Poseidon step closer to the Hearth, the flickering glow caressing his granite-hewn limbs, the sway of his ever-functional toga, the intense face that was the first she could remember. Scarlet lips parted slightly at the stinging question while one lone crystal tear slipped over peaches and cream skin. With movements too fast to measure—as fast as the horse he created, as fast as the waves he rode—he was suddenly lifting her off the bench with solid hands over sooty robes, clasping her tight, one thumb pushing the wetness from her cheek. "I am a claimed man now," his voice was low, puffs of air upon her face, but with a bite that almost made her tremble. Surely he would not _strike_ her? No, not Poseidon, not for this, not when everything she had ever done was for the betterment of the majority, the safety of others. Not…not when she had practically begged for his acceptance. "I have a wife whom you have claimed as blood. Children." Hestia swallowed, eyes jumping from his face to the hot palm unexpectedly grasping her jaw. _Oh dear Zeus_. "And through all your explanations Sister you offer no apology, when I would have claimed you—" She gave a jerk, tried to pull away, but there was no mercy in Poseidon's eyes and the Virgin Goddess was hauled flush against his chest, his body. "When I want to claim you."

Salt-drenched, sun-whipped lips sealed down upon her own with a fury, Hestia's eyes wide in shock as the first taste of intimate contact was forced upon her self. One roughened hand slid into her cascade of golden curls, holding tight and pressing into the sensitive tendons of her neck, controlling the embrace and directing her head back at a nearly painful angle. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling, tugging, pinching into her flesh through the drapery of her robes in order to forestall any escape.

She was lost in a haze of disbelief, unable to protest as Poseidon explored her mouth compulsorily, stealing her very breath while fingers slipped down along her thigh with insistent measure. _Would it have always been like this?_ Did mortals feel even this sort of passion? This helplessness, like grain under the farmer's scythe? This rolling sensation like her very body was not her own?

"Stop," Hestia breathed, pushing ineffectively against her Brother's chest and dipping her chin only to feel the heady scrape of his red beard and wet tongue rasp the length of her throat. "No stop, you cannot—"

"I? Will you not even give me the pleasure of your regret?"

His voice was abruptly a low hiss that froze the Goddess to the marrow with its heat but jarred a response nonetheless.

"Never. I cannot regret my oath."

The embrace ended as soon as it had begun, his violent expulsion sending Hestia toppling back onto her bench only to shrink back from his wrath, watching as he spat, features awash with vehemence.

"You are a **tragedy**!"

How had this turned so sharply? How did he—Hestia sat up in horror, colour draining from her countenance just as surely as the glamour drained off the male form.

"A pathetic pitiful tragedy, Grandmother."

Moros' doomed gaze fell heavily upon her, prominent sneer and aura of mortal despair and desperation cloaking him more fervently than what he usually expressed while in attendance on Olympus. His robes moved thick and ominous before the Fire, refusing to drop her distraught stare or end her torment, making her ask in shame.

"Why would you do this?" Her scared fingers were almost to her mouth before Hestia drew them back to her rumpled lap. "You said…he was supposed to…You promised me—" Moros rounded on her quickly, a sudden put-on that Hestia recognized as such but could say nothing against, the anger still burning in his eyes.

"Hear me Virgin and be reminded that I made no such promises nor would it matter if I had; it was your simpering blindness that allowed you to be fooled and your self-righteousness that refused to let you reach out and **take** what you desire."

Desire? Hestia tilted her head, curls falling over one shoulder, grey eyes unblinking. Desire. There was a brief flush on her cheeks but not from their fraudulent kiss.

"You confuse me and delude yourself. I wanted Poseidon to _see_ me again, not simply endure my presence—"

"No one is that good!" Moros growled viciously pointing one long accusing finger. "You deserve your misery Hestia, now live it for eternity."

"You expelled a great deal of energy to show me as a fool Moros," Hestia took a deep breath and felt her inner calm return. Of course this was to be the outcome; Moros was Doom itself and she should not have expected anything different. Illusions of change and nothing more; nature could not be defied, as much as she had believed otherwise, as much as she had thought his good will achievable. As much as she had thought him reachable.

Mistaken yet again.

"I am surprised you took such care with my anguish."

"Careful Grandmother, that almost tasted of bitterness."

"No." She stood, facing the God. Hestia was tired, prepared to retire and forget. "No regret, no bitterness. You shall have nothing of mine. Ever. I know you now and you are as you always have been."

There was a snort and she watched macabre corpse-white teeth appear behind curled lips just before the male disappeared into air and shadow, the sensation of cold fingers on her cheek.

"And you are still alone. As you have always been."

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**A/N: **So this was not what I originally set out to write. In my head it ended with Hestia's emotional breakdown and some more sexual depravity, where she still believed it was Poseidon with her and not Moros. I suppose I like her too much and couldn't do it--which is a first as I usually take a lot of pleasure in torturing my characters. Oh God now I'm going to have to write something excessively deviant to get that sickly sweet taste out of my mouth...


	18. Hestia and Artemis

**Initiation**

**Summary: **After making her oath of virginity to Zeus, Hestia offers comfort and knowledge to a saddened Huntress who must learn to accept her role in the world.

**Author's Notes:** Gift for lj user, kwanboa, for my Christmas Fic Exchange! I think it's pretty fluffy and sappy but I thoroughly enjoyed writing it and I hope you like it. The end came about by listening to a Dar Williams song actually :D

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The delicate pearl comb moved in soft slow strokes over the ruined bob that had once been a luxurious sheet of curling russet locks. She had made her decision perfectly clear and received Zeus' reluctant blessing; Artemis had renounced the life of mother and lover and would never suffer the indignities of other women—other Goddesses—whose consorts chose to seek pleasures elsewhere. No male would demand her continued presence in a gilded tower, order her away from the hunt and the wild. Her cheeks were flushed, residual anger and defiance, but there was no fight to be had, no one with whom to argue, and the rage that had fuelled her earlier arguments and oaths now felt like a lump of ironwork within her insides wishing to dissipate. Her dark gold, sun-washed hands clasped together on her lap over the hem of her tunic.

"Why this kindness?"

The milk-pale woman sitting beside her on the cushioned lounge laughed silently, the rustle of her dress of veils a small disturbance in the lift and press of the comb. Her scarred hands shone red against the calming instrument and her yellow curls were perfumed with various oils, the warm scent of cedar surrounding her gentle countenance.

"Women have always had need of the kindness of other women." Hestia's voice was low, measured, reserved for the fireside and open ears, and Artemis turned her head, the better to listen. "We simply do not ask for fear of showing weakness, but this," the pointed spines of the comb dragged carefully over Artemis' scalp and the younger Goddess sighed, "is not weakness. It is a pleasure for me to perform, and, I believe, a pleasure for you to receive. A mutual comfort."

"But why?"

"I am afraid you believe you are destined for a half-life."

"What?" the Huntress turned fully, hastily, the pearl spines grazing the bare flesh of her golden shoulder. "No!" she shook her head, proud smile fighting to reach her Immortal eyes. "I shall have the best life! I have my fields and arrows, my hounds and deer! I have the wind in my step and the Long Hunt before me!" There was spirit in her voice. . .but doubt as well. This was what Artemis had longed for but she had seen how vows had changed Athena and even gentle Hestia by her Hearth—virginity was a solitude that Artemis suddenly feared she could not stomach.

"You swore an oath to men," Hestia calm spoke through Artemis' fierceness. "And they interpret as they see fit." Her blue eyes held a quiet sorrow as he seemed to read the other woman's mind. "That is something Athena never understood and now her life is full of war, no balance. Artemis," one hand rose to touch the Huntress' shorn hair. "You are of the Earth, the Moon, Life and Death. You were not meant to be alone."

"And what of you Goddess?" Hestia laughed, the noise like flickering flames and children's heartbeats, and stood to rearrange the swath of sheets around her body.

"I bless the multitudes, feed the hungry and keep the home. Solitude has never been my crutch. Now," she stretched out her hand. "Will you come with me?"

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The woods and thicket was not unknown to Artemis. Many a time had she roamed, head bent, attuned to the clicks and roars and padded steps of the animals that lived and died by her silver arrows, of the humans that hunted among the olive groves and still waters by her whim. There was a cry of birds overhead and the air was warm.

"Sit with me."

"This is my domain Hestia," Artemis kneeled, her swift limbs folded beneath her. "You have not been here before."

"I go where I wish," the elder Goddess smiled, "and harm none. It is how I have lived this long without a sword put to my throat or a curse thrown at my feet."

"You gossip too long with Hermes and now speak in riddles," the Huntress watched the wind push ripples in the water. "Why bring me here?"

"To show you what you have ignored since claiming these hills and vales and mountains as your sacred grounds," Hestia swept her hands over the long grasses, greens and dusty browns weaving around her fingers. "To show you what's been here since Nyx and Gaia parted, what you have thoughtlessly ignored in your arrogance and loneliness."

"Thoughtless?!" Artemis' midnight eyes widened. "Insulting fire tender—"

"Take care Huntress," Hestia's voice was calm but firm, her stare wise as she overrode the banked rage with truth. "Theban Niobe would say much worse if she could speak. Now come closer," she opened her arms to the younger woman, veils fluttering, thick yellow hair revealed by the warm breeze, and pointed towards two heavily flowering oleander, "and tell me what you see."

"I see a very tall shrub," she responded blandly, allowing herself to lean onto Hestia's rounded hip and welcoming lap, the gentle woman's sloped pillow-chest a comfort against Artemis' back however exasperating the conversation. She hissed snidely, "If you wished to question someone on blossoming flora you should have brought Persephone." The comment earned a pinch for which Hestia was wholly unrepentant and Artemis resumed contemplating the white flowers while the other Goddess began to stroke her neck.

"They have been here all along," the words were whispered with soothing breath and Artemis inhaled. "Had you but curled your finger any one would have been pleased to serve you."

"Serve me?"

"The Long Hunt is not meant to be faced by oneself, Artemis. Whatever you may think or have believed, you have many followers."

Followers? Sniffling, ornamental lackeys used to carry cups or race the rainbows escorting sanctioned messages? Useless.

"I have no need for followers."

"Companions then?" Hestia's soft caress moved up to drag along the Goddess' chin then back again, fingers curling under tunic straps to trace the contours of defined bones and muscled flesh. "Ones with like mind and heart? Who can be called upon but never commanded?" Artemis' chest rose and fell, her gaze unfocused now, the flowers and greenery becoming something else and something more.

"Are you doing this?"

"They have always been here waiting for you."

The tall trees and lance-like leaves were now accompanied by three astounding beauties, strong builds and glittering skin, with eyes as wise as the Fates combined. They stepped forward on silent feet, pointed ears perked for signs that Artemis was ready for their assistance, that the Huntress was calling a start to the chase.

"Tree nymphs?"

"Hardly. Courage and Speed and Spirit," Hestia smiled, nodding to the women who shrugged skeins of cedar arrows off their untiring shoulders. "Your soldiers, your lovers, your friends. They belong here with you Huntress, cannot be kidnapped or cajoled." She cupped Artemis' jaw and spoke firmly. "Loneliness is not your lot. Strength and passion will see you through eternity far better than any chosen mate would and now you know that they are all around you." Artemis blinked full, dark lashes, watching her ceaseless hunters simply enjoy the warmth of Helios' orb, the smooth shine of worked deer hide wraps and flawless sparkling cheeks so lovely as to bring tears. They could not be taken away, brutishly used and tossed aside by the Olympians she had been raised to venerate but could barely look upon. One white-haired warrior reached out for her black-skinned Sister who in turn wrapped an arm around the third who had begun to meticulously inspect a dagger of boar tusk. She flashed a dazzling smile at Artemis and kissed her Sister's hand, revealing a diadem of silver topped with moon-shine and starlight from the depths of her fur dress.

Her hand found Hestia's ankle and she squeezed, a sigh of relief and rebirth and revitalization leaving Artemis' limp body as she finally surrendered to letting the gentle Goddess support her weight. No more doubt, no more frightening holes of blackness to be seen like second sight into the future, no more waiting or wanting or envious judgment. Never would she again believe her oaths to be akin to a noose around her throat or fear the wrath of falling thunderbolts. She turned her head and pressed a kiss to the welcoming slippery lips of Hestia's mouth and the Goddess smiled, pressing back, tenderly placing a palm to the swell of the Huntress' lean chest.

"They interpret as they see fit?"

"Of course."

"Swear it."

Hestia raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"You wish another oath?"

"No! No. . ." Artemis shifted, fingers and thumbs and hands going quickly towards the curves and soft places hidden by Hestia's veils. A damn had been broken through delicate permission and now she could have and get and feel. "I. . .I will trust without the carving, without any pound of flesh." Milk-skin was revealed and Artemis flushed but did not still her movements or stop the searching Hestia seemed content to let her make.

"As it should be."

"But. . .But how did you know?"

"It does not matter," Hestia grasped Artemis' jaw and kissed her slowly, thoroughly. A Virgin tongue inside a Virgin mouth and nipples as red as berries. "But there will be more Huntresses Artemis; you will not be the last nor only."

Artemis pulled back momentarily from her first lick of pleasure then nodded, understanding. It would now be her responsibility to impart this wisdom, this freedom.

"I shall need followers."

"Will you accept them?"

Hands met between thighs and Artemis nodded, breathless.

"For you, for this, I will accept them. And pity the ones who live in want."

Hestia could only nod and accept the half-truth—for Artemis, like Athena, was her father's daughter and pity was a foreign word—and let the Huntress kiss her stomach and lower while her companions watched and imitated. "Thank you Goddess."

"They all shall be you realize. Even those who have no need of oaths. All who find love and pleasure will be."

"They will be what?"

"Goddesses."


	19. The Birth

**Title:** The Birth  
**Fandom:** Greek Mythology  
**Characters:** Hestia, Poseidon, mentions of others  
**Rating:** PG-13 for mentions of war and allusions of rape  
**Summary:** When she awoke he was the first one there.

**Author's Note:** If anyone is over on LJ and interested, I have a fic journal overe there called greenbat_fics :) Lately I've become more excited about posting over there than here.

***

She remembered a warm darkness. Stillness. Comfort. She remembered a rocking and the belief that all was as it should be.

A blinding light came next accompanied by the most beautiful sound, a soft voice whispering _You are Hestia. My first. My beloved daughter._

Harsh movement followed, sounds less pleasant and frightful, and then a sensation of falling as the darkness returned but without the stillness or comfort. She didn't understand but that was a moot point. She was suspended. Nothingness. This was the birth of Fear in her small immortal heart, a heart that would know no Time or Age. And it would continue for an eternity.

***

There was light and horrible screaming and no time whatsoever to become acclimatized to the barrage of stimulation being pressed upon her. Something covered her face . . . Hair. Long golden curls. She brushed back the strands, not liking the feel of her hands as if invisible grime covered her flesh. She blinked. Again. And then a hand clasped her own.

"Are you well Sister?"

Sister?

"She called me Hestia."

"I am Poseidon. Rise."

She held on tightly to his offered appendage and stood on shaking legs as the sky above them exploded in a shower of red light and sliver dust. "You have almost missed the battle Hestia." His bright blue eyes were a mixture of excitement and determination but she was immediately shaking her head in refusal even as she watched swords clash, even as two other women cried out in rage and lifted spears, their strong bodies splashed with blood.

"I cannot fight."

"You must." His voice was firm but not vicious. "However will you show your loyalty Sister? This is a War and your siblings have already engaged the enemy."

"And I was sleeping."

"We thought you dead." She raised her eyes and took in the decimated plain. How long had this battle raged? How long had she been out of darkness? "It was long before Cronus expelled you."

". . .Our father."

"Yes. Zeus, our Brother, killed him." There was blood on his hand as he raised it to her forehead, lifting aside a lock of hair she had not noticed. "What say you now Sister?"

A flaming piece of earth fell from the sky, filling the air with brimstone and smoke as well as an oppressive heat that singed the delicate hairs along her pale arms. There was no pain though, and she knew she would take neither spear nor sword to any being.

"I shall tend the wounded," she brought his split palm down. "And pray for our victory."

"Some will call you weak."

"Let them. My loyalty will be unquestioned."

***

She restacked the cedar methodically, flames catching the sweet almond oil quickly and shooting a perfumed smoke up from the stone hearth. Her thoughts were troubled and hard to reconcile, and she was not good company for the man seated across from her no matter how pleased she was with his presence. He was not at ease either but their reasons were distanced, not at all alike. His sigh was a breeze.

"You spend much time here. On the floor."

"And you would know this how?" Her tone had a forced lightness and she regretted the lack of genuine feeling. "You have spent many years in your new kingdom."

"No!"

"Yes." She smiled softly. It was enjoyable to tease him, Poseidon, but even as she made fun his absence had been felt keenly. "At least you are here now. Hades has not returned. . .nor is he likely to."

"Not even for the wedding of his _King_?"

There was a note in his voice that she knew rose from his stubborn nature, a need to have no Father, no overlord; it was well he had decided to throw lots with their Brothers; it was well Poseidon held dominion away from Olympus—but this was not why a smooth piece of wood slipped inelegantly from her hand and clattered noisily beside one soot-dotted foot. She blinked and swallowed and reached once again for the cedar. _Hera had said no many times. Why was that not enough? Why was a word not enough?_

"Sister? Hestia. . .You are not well?"

"It will pass."

She could tell by his expression that her answer had not pleased him.

It did not please her either.

***

His step was preceded by a rolling sense of frenzy, a metallic scent that tickles ones nose before the rain pours and the waves rage, a trick of the air that sends birds screeching for land and protective nests. She had nothing to fear and she did not feel it. She was resigned and calm and knew what to expect—it was, of course, not the first time he had approached her such. Time moved so fast for them all however; his last visit seemed long ago and yet she felt unchanged. It was a joy to have him near ever if the anger had to be tolerated. She put her poker aside, one that Hephaestus had fashioned, and pushed a lock of golden hair back underneath her array of muted veils.

"You gave your throne to that _**boy**_?!"

This was not a good beginning but it was honest. His voice echoed off the marble.

She raised her face and met his stare.

"I did not need it."

"Did—Did not **need** it?" He folded large arms over a broad chest and she hoped their argument would not last. "What does that matter? He is the spawn of a mortal! A gullible idiot besides, who allowed herself to be tricked into her own demise!" He stepped closer to where she was seated on her bench, a basin of crystal water and a goblet at her feet. He was no happier. "Sister, you are Forever! Immortal! A Queen who should—"

"No!"

She stopped his speech and watched his anger flicker. It was not towards her. He did not wish to hurt her. "I am not a queen," she stated distinctly, then gestured towards her Hearth, the fire that had lived almost as long as they had. "This is where I belong. I am not separated from the others but I am separate from their ways. Without the Hearth there would be no Home, Olympus would simply be a mountain, a place of waiting without permanence."

"Does that not describe you?"

"No one else would do this."

"Obviously."

There was exasperation and a glare, a tapped sandal and clenched hands. Then there was a twitch, a curving of the lip, and she reached out to him and grasped his hand, pulling his larger frame down to sit beside her on the bench, a wall of white marble at their back. "He is our nephew, Brother. He is as beloved as any of yours would be should you one day give me children to enjoy!" She laughed and dismissed his strange expression as the cooling of his temper.

"You have more scars than I first remembered."

She sighed and looked down at their clasped hands to the miniscule silvery lines that now ran the length of each of her fingers and would possibly one day cover the entirety of her hands.

"Perhaps. Our memories are not without fault."

"Some worse than others."

She glanced at his bearded visage from the corner of her eye. They had argued about memories at great length once before and she would not begin again.

"You have very little to distract you these days," she spoke, smiling, after some time.

"Why do you say that?"

"I have seen your creations, Poseidon. What do you call the great beast with long legs?"

"My Kraken?" he grinned.

"No, no," she laughed, glad to see his heaviness dispersed. "Not that one! The one with long hair and speed. The one that the mortals favour so much."

"Oh," and here his demeanour changed to one of grand pride, "It is a 'horse' and I believe it is my greatest accomplishment to date. They will cover the Earth soon." She was glad of his triumph and nodded.

"Perhaps one day you will introduce me?" He leaned back.

"You would leave your perch?"

"It is not a perch!"

"My apologies."

Their laughter was loud and hearty and when they stood to return to the rest of their family she was once again content. He regarded the space in between though with aversion. "I will order columns built here, dozens of them to show that the home of the Gods continues beyond the throne room and it's revels."

"Poseidon—"

"And yes Hestia," he turned and gently put a kiss to her forehead, dismissing her rebuttal. "One day I will introduce you to all my creations."

She nodded. This was agreeable and she would not press the matter, though she doubted Zeus would take kindly to orders concerning his own palace.

"Then come greet Dionysus of the Vine and be gladdened, Brother."

"Of the what?"

"You will see."


	20. Hades

His Queen, his Jewell, was four months absent from her throne and kingdom, returned to Mother and mortals and a living world that cared much but gave little back to the Maiden of flowers and speckled sunshine and nesting beasts. Unlike himself who gave all. Gave everything. Everything he was or had was hers to do with as she willed. Beautiful of face and figure, word and deed: Persephone made Hades whole.

But Persephone had secrets and the Rich One was not pleased. She thought to hide sweet Aphrodite's pet. She thought to hide a _mortal_ within his palace walls, spells layered upon spells taught by Hecate herself who loved The Boy. By doing so she thought to show Hades for a fool and that was unforgivable. He would find this pet and have done with it.

So he believed.

His search was long but finally . . .

He did not know this woman, and for an Immortal of great lands and power and destiny who knew every face and form that served him this news was quite disturbing. She was not a ghost or demon or spirit. Nymph? Perhaps. Or earthen Goddess that had slipped between the cracks of Here and There, one whom Cerberus had failed to catch? A rarity but not impossible though she did not appear to have the strength of Heracles behind those dainty arms. She did not smell of death. She did not smell of darkness and decay. Waters of the River Lethe did not course through her fine limbs; her blood was warm and her jade eyes alert, fresh and green and nothing akin to his own dear Queen's dark orbs.

They watched each other from either ends of a great hall and she did not quiver.

"I am from the hills. I came to see—"

"I know whom you visit." His words were made of obsidian. Her limbs were thin and spotless. There could be no other but this pet of Persephone's.

"Yes," she whispered. "I believe you do."

His heart was not moved by her voice or beauty; the meat inside Hades' chest beat ever and only for his Wife of Spring. But that did not stop him from seizing this girl and demanding her name.

"I am called Minthe."

"And you shall call me Master."

There was no fight, she spread her limbs with no complaint, not that there was a choice, not now. His wrath was strong and he would not be denied. Her mouth was smooth and wet and used and that mattered little. But when he rose from her thighs—not for the first time, not for the last—he swore he heard unpleasant laughter, like dry corn in the field.

Like a sharpened scythe through wheat.


	21. Hera

And she was not even a centerpiece, not a jewel in the crown that was Olympus.

Not anymore.

Younger. Expressly fertile. Innocent.

She had once been innocent in a way. Even after rising full-formed as offal from her Father's crowded insides, tasting the blood of aunt and uncle as she joined in sending the former regime into the black pits of Tartarus, while golden sandals sparkled on her ethereal flesh she was still innocent of men.

But that was then.

And so she hungered for what was promised: the power, the respect, the adoration, the confidence, the knowledge, the exquisite love. Despite the pain. And waiting was intolerable, nothing came to her quickly enough or pretty enough or with enough genuflection.

He was absent entirely even while physically present and it disgusted her beyond belief, that she should still want and desire him, still bend the knee to his proclamations and be forced to accept. . .everything. Ganymede, the former prince of Troy, now the boy that held his cup—replacing _her_ child! (Damned Eos and her morning absolutions)—now closer to Zeus' hand than even she, caressed and clucked. Heracles—oh the shame in being namesake to that human whore's abomination!—with more strength than cunning, with designs on the Immortal mountain home that would have cloaked other mortals with the stain of heresy and cursed their progeny onto the fifth generation; he ascended on high and was welcomed with open arms while she was forced to endure. Eunomia, Dyke, Eirene: sisters who held the passage of seasons as well as her husband's ear, who carried Judgement as their banner and felled humans at will. They all were coddled and favoured and accepted completely even with inferior beginnings.

Mortal after mortal after mortal and still he was not satisfied, and yet she was left in starvation, in desperation, unable to touch and feel or be filled if not by his command. Their children bitter disappointments in comparison, always carrying to much pity or fear or indifference in their name's wake.

She once had the chance to make him taste of her lake of poison when arrogant Ixion tried claiming dominion over her body. She would have followed eagerly—a mortal, lower than her monstrous cousins in her esteem, but still empowered with that rolling confidence that only kings can bear—wished to see the stares of pity shine on her husband in the eyes of those closest to their hearts, finally away from her and her successful cuckolding. But even that simple act was taken away. Petulant child! To have the population of the world at his disposal, wife or servant or priestess, and to deny her one King! To deny her even the act of copulation, fashioning a figment instead for Ixion to lay with, a cloud to bear his denizens of half-creation. And then, true to form, naming this figment, giving it essence and leaving It to float and mourn the loss of It's expected mate, Ixion of Thessaly tossed to hell and the flaming wheel.

Oh how she hungered for sex and death, for revenge and revelation.

Oh how she hungered for the Fall.


End file.
